In Spite of All My Fears
by Hawkz
Summary: Being human is more than just looking the part. Medieval AU.


So. Heads up. This will be many things. Long. Ridiculously long. Updates will be molasses slow. Huge hiatus in between chunks of it, I'm sure. Read this at your own peril and suffering if you are an impatient reader. Maybe don't read it until it nears completion. I'm a difficult writer to work with, so just me editing and sometimes I get tired (plus I upload stories close to midnight, about the same time I write, which is becoming a habit I'm not really fond of). I really need to find a friend/stranger to play editor. This doc is permeated with grammatical sins, but, again, its midnight, I'm tired, and against my better judgement I decided to publish this. Yeah. Back to point.

This story is nothing new. You'll notice similar themes. (Originality. Ha!) Set in Medieval times, miraculous's are not what they are in the show, correct me if characters ever act OOC, I'm trying to keep them true to their tv show counterparts. One big thing, I plan to include all the characters. ALL the classmates. Came across this person on tumblr-tiddles? tides? T-something, just know that they're great and I'll get their name right and edit this later. Or someone can correct me in the comments-who uploaded a bunch of DJWifi art and ML art that centered on the other characters in the show. Who clearly don't get enough love! Or they do and I'm just too busy binging on Marichat to notice. Damn my bias. So. Yep. Plans to create a rich universe and construct and heavy plot. Ambitions.

 **Hawkz**

p.s. Those fluent in french, please correct me. My knowledge is dusty and high school based. I'm usually converting straight from English to French, and my attempts at zingers in French will probably fall flat. (But I'm still going to try.) Ideas for puns in English or French welcome.

* * *

Something went wrong. Many things, actually, an accumulation of innumerable variables of varying size that lead Marinette to her current predicament, but, when she thought over all the experiences leading to this, Marinette found one in particular she blamed:

That regrettable night on the balcony.

She never should have let Chat Noir onto her balcony.

She never should have teased him so.

She never should have let her guard down.

He never should have seen her ear.

But he did. So here she was. Marinette scowled and struck her fist against the railing. It was solid and unyielding against her pressure, a metaphor for more, and the thought deepened her scowl. One long breath in followed by a shaky exhale out cooled her ire some. Being upset only hindered her thought process, and she needed to think.

 _Vision without action is a daydream. Action without vision is a nightmare,_ she reminded herself. Something she would know after that first week here, acting like a wild animal unhinged in hindsight. Marinette picked up her discarded fabric and resumed sewing; having her hands occupied allowed her clarity of mind.

Two succinct knocks on the door told her who it was. His call went unanswered. "Don't bother knocking if you're going to enter anyway." A quick open and shut. One day it wouldn't bother her how everyone disrespected her wishes. Probably the day she was entombed and buried. The fidgeting rustle of his chemise and precise clip of his boots warned her how close he was getting. The intruder cleared his throat. "I said I wanted to be alone tonight. Go away."

"Mademoiselle, I understand you wishes, however—"

"They will never be respected nor entertained?"

Ahem. "No, mademoiselle, you misunderstand—"

"That the courtesy offered to guests is not offered to prisoners?"

"You are not—"

" _Petit bite? Va t'en, si tu dites seulement des mensonges._ "

"He requests your audience," D'Argencourt said at last as Marinette occupied herself with finding a new color of thread.

"Does he? Well, tell him I will be there at soonest opportunity."

A judicious beat of silence. "You're not actually going, are you?" Her firm affirmative of the negative made the servant sigh. Nathalie was going to have a silent fit if another room was destroyed, especially after all that progress. "I'll escort you to the stables if you dine with him tonight."

Bloodless knuckles gripped the needle, her lips and fingertips pinched white. "You know I am forbidden from the stables." The fact, reinforced when she attempted otherwise, was a sore spot of hers. That his repeated offer took a longer time for her to rebuff told him she was tempted by the bait. Pianist thin fingers raked back his short crop of hair.

"Look." She didn't. "Dine with him for supper and I'll take you the stable tomorrow, from as soon as you rise until dusk." Now he had her attention. His heart thundered as the girl mulled over her options.

"I go the the stables directly from supper. As soon as I finish," Marinette countered.

"As soon as you both do," he amended. "I'll have your meals brought to the stables all of tomorrow." At that compromise, he knew he had her. Marinette always chewed the bottom corner of her lip when tempted to agree.

"Just dinner?"

"Just dinner," he nodded.

"Very well. Lead the way."

"Would you care to freshen up first?" Between his tone and his body language, Marinette saw enough of a dichotomy to understand how this would end. Chuffing out a snort, she walked over to the basin and groomed herself to the minimum. D'Argencourt took the time to discreetly send a page running to his liege's quarters, informing him of the lady's imminent arrival.

"Happy?" she snapped at the swordsman's smile.

"You look lovely, mademoiselle."

"Acting like a gentleman after victory does not make you one." D'Argencourt swallowed his tongue. In another light, at another time, D'Argencourt would admire her ready wit and penchant for verbal sparing. Tonight, he prayed that Chat would find it far more endearing than the swordsman currently did.

* * *

Chat stalked in front of the fireplace's light with grace, even poise, despite the alcohol imbibed. Thin rays of light scattered through the room, dots of candle flames highlighting various surfaces and appurtenances within the room. Chat Noir had night vision. All others had to adapt. Two bottles of wine lay open and empty, the remaining wine swishing dangerously in the goblet he carried. Chat threw a nervous, irascible glance at the grandfather clock.

"The hour grows late. She said she'd be here. Is she delayed? Why is she delayed? Do you think, think maybe, she decided not to come? But she said she would…" Chat was rambling, alcohol and nerves making words slick on his tongue and they rolled out without stop or thought. His bodyguard grunted from his post. "I know!" Chat snarled and spun, flinging droplets of red wine. A sigh. He repeated the phrase, more subdued.

"She agreed to join me for supper. That's progress, right?"

No words. But the bodyguard's eyes drew thoughtfully to his charge and then slowly away.

Chat heaved another sigh, deflating into the nearest chair. His free hand raked through his bangs and back, rubbing back and forth until his hair was a wild field of wheaten gold. What was left in his goblet he drained quickly.

Gorilla's discreet hand gesture stilled the servants from bringing out new bottles. Already this evening was resting on precarious stilts and Gorilla did not want to augment the risk. An intoxicated Chat was not nearly as bad as an enraged one, yet how quickly the former could become the latter. It was his job to minimize the damages, protect the young lord. The last four months were the hardest thus far, followed by—

An abrupt series of knocking.

Chat tripped over himself to answer the door until a heavy hand on his shoulder slowed him down. "Gorilla, not now," the young man hissed. Gorilla waved a hand in front of his face and, while slow at first, Chat's eyes widened in realization. "Oh, yes, yes, of course. Show her in and let her get comfortable. Anything she wants or requires. I'll only be a few minutes." Chat's foray into the washroom was a quick affair. He positively beamed seeing her in his solar. "Marinette! It is a pleasure to see you this evening."

Her returning glance was cool, fleeting. "Chat Blanc," she stated and nothing else. His tail flickered, then drooped. Chat gestured to the settee behind her. "Please, make yourself comfort—"

Marinette did not let him finish. "I believe I am here for supper."

"My pardon, where are my manners? Allow me to show you to your seat." Gorilla's muscles grew tense the longer Chat's hand stayed extended and alone. He released his breath when Marinette finally took it. No amount of darkness dimmed Chat's delight over the fact. She refused the wine, asking for hot tea instead. Gorilla cringed at how the conversation all but died there. Chat did most of the talking, dropping questions where he was mostly ignored or given succinct, monosyllabic replies. When her patience ran thin and pique snatched her in its vices, Marinette's tongue was pointed, wit and steel finding all their targets. The attendant serving the food dashed in quick and out even quicker.

 _Coward_ , Gorilla cursed.

Silence. No talking. No chinks from silverware scraping across plates.

He missed something.

It had gone deathly quiet, and Chat was no longer smiling.

"That is not open for discussion, Marinette," Chat said in a tone meant to end the topic there. Marinette ignored the warning.

"The hell it isn't! Chat Blanc, I have to go home. They need me."

"I need you," he argued, bleeding into a beg. "Besides it is winter. You'll not fare well outside these walls."

The reminder was unwelcomed and not wholly untruthful. Marinette shook her head. "You want me. There's a difference, Chat Blanc."

"Stop calling me that," he hissed. Neither were seated anymore. The fine hairs on Gorilla's arms stood to attention.

"Then what is this?" For emphasis, she flicked his ear dabbed in white. Chat ensnared her wrist in its recoil, breathing harder than warranted. His opponent stood her ground; she always stood her ground. "Let go, Chat Blanc."

"That is _not_ my name." From the limits of his peripheral vision, Chat's bodyguard animated to catch his attention. Chat ignored him.

"A beast by any other name," she taunted. A teeth-baring hiss dragged out a warning, Chat taking the time to draw to his full height until he loomed over Marinette, his grip bruising. Marinette bit the inside of her cheek to keep from wincing over the pain but, like Chat, was breathing harder. Where visible, fur bristled and grew, pushing against the cuffs and thickening into a ruff around his neck in tempo with the indignant pulses of his blood—steady, slow, and fierce. Juxtaposed so, Marinette appeared lilliputian, even fragile. One hell of a firebrand, to be sure, but human. Mortal. Breakable.

The clatter of a heavy plate startled them out of their staring contest to see Gorilla gesturing to the cake. The server was nowhere to be seen. Stiff as joints riddled with rigor mortis, Chat's fingers loosened one by one. Marinette cradled her forearm to her chest, rubbing soothing strokes along the blooming bruise. Cat ears hugged Chat's head and his tail dragged the floor, a tell-all tale for his mood. Awkward pauses and hesitations jumped between his words. "I don't think either of us are in the mood for dessert, Gorilla. But. Thank you. I am sure my guest tires this evening. Please have Marinette escorted to her chambers."

"Call for D'Argencourt," Marinette requested with not a glance back.

Gorilla watched it all fall apart. The perfunctory adieus matched the cold reception from earlier. Chat did not walk her to the door for he kept one hand firmly latched onto the backrest of his chair. Fissure and fine crevices etched into the woodwork under Chat's claws. Gorilla hoped it could be restored; it was an antique.

The door shut. One breath. Two.

He counted less than ten.

Half of the backrest Chat snapped off and the rest rotted under the cataclysm of his claws. "Why must she be so difficult?" Gnashing teeth guttered out most of his roar, tumbling it into a growl, yet one that rocked against the walls in an angsty fashion. Gorilla stepped in when the dark magic shadowing his charge's frame dulled then dissipated, two ungainly pats on Chat's shoulder his only means of comfort.

If you asked for his opinion—and no one ever seemed interested in it—then Gorilla believed this to be progress. Much improved since four months ago. The body guard's eyes drifted to what few patches of black fur were visible.

 _Still a long ways to go though._

* * *

French translations: "[Short stuff?] Go away if you'll do nothing but spout lies." This is a very loose 'translation'. In fact, I'm sure I just piqued native speakers with how I butchered their language. Petit bite is supposed to be a play on words. Bite can mean rod or sword, but really, it's translated as cock or prick. So Marinette's calling the swordsman's _instrument_ small. Sassy.

 _._

 _._

 _._


End file.
